


Voltage Running Through Her Skin

by Theoroark



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fantasma Sombra, Noire Widowmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theoroark/pseuds/Theoroark
Summary: No one dares disturb Tekhartha Mondatta in his study, not when he’s helping a beautiful young woman. No one comes to save him. Widowmaker slips out the window. Her hoverbike is waiting for her in the alley. She taps her passcode into the keypad and it lights up, the locks on the propulsors and chassis glowing into purple visibility once and then fading away. She drives up to the highway above her.It’s late at night but traffic is still thick and she weaves between low-flying freighter ships and the odd brave pedestrian on skates. Mondatta’s core is in her head, already decomposing into raw energy and losing everything that made him who he was.It’s an irritating feeling. Widow tinkers with her armband and mutes her neural implants. The crumbling sensation disappears, and she’s left with the ambient growl of the city. The air this high up almost escapes the smog smell, the moon almost breaks through the neon haze. It’s a pleasant ride back to her penthouse.
Relationships: Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Voltage Running Through Her Skin

Many of Widowmaker’s marks are honest about things. They’re cyborgs and Omnics who would drain her if she didn’t drain them first. Maybe of her money, not the cybernetic energy she’s looking for. Maybe just her time, looking to push her head down and pull her ass up and pretend not to notice when she doesn’t cum. But they want something from her. They’re good sports, all things considered, when she gets what she wants from them first. 

Mondatta is not an honest mark. Mondatta wants to save her. Mondatta is a generous soul, a giving Omnic, and is celebrated as such. People believe in him and he has clearly started to believe too. It makes it very easy for Widowmaker to arrive at his temple with a quivering lip and tight clothes, and quickly get shuffled back to his office. Mondatta tilts his head and tells her he’ll help her. 

Mondatta is the type who loves to help, because it makes others love him. He’s like Ana Amari, now fending for herself one eye down in the wasteland outside the city. Like Gérard, whose well-attended funeral generously featured her empty casket as a sideshow. Mondatta needs people to need heroes, because he needs power. He needs someone to save, because he needs gratitude and deference. And he needs no one to know what he needs. 

Mondatta is not an honest mark. And that makes him quite easy to lie to. Widowmaker hiccups out some sobs. Runs her fingers up her head to the cables drooping down like a long ponytail. Asks if Mondatta will take a look. 

Mondatta does. He holds out his palm, and Widowmaker hooks the cables into hom. First she disables his vocal units, so she can’t scream as she siphons away his core. His forehead-eyes flicker out and he slumps in his chair. A shell. 

No one dares disturb Tekhartha Mondatta in his study, not when he’s helping a beautiful young woman. No one comes to save him. Widowmaker slips out the window. Her hoverbike is waiting for her in the alley. She taps her passcode into the keypad and it lights up, the locks on the propulsors and chassis glowing into purple visibility once and then fading away. She drives up to the highway above her. 

It’s late at night but traffic is still thick and she weaves between low-flying freighter ships and the odd brave pedestrian on skates. Mondatta’s core is in her head, already decomposing into raw energy and losing everything that made him who he was.

It’s an irritating feeling. Widow tinkers with her armband and mutes her neural implants. The crumbling sensation disappears, and she’s left with the ambient growl of the city. The air this high up almost escapes the smog smell, the moon almost breaks through the neon haze. It’s a pleasant ride back to her penthouse. 

Widow parks outside the wall-long window. The front propulsor locks into its dock, and she steps onto the hardlight pathway that materializes before her. She steps through the glass door. 

Her penthouse is done like the house she grew up in, on a private island in France with Omnic hounds keeping wastelanders away. Dark reds and purples, velvet and silk, oil paintings on the walls. Her back to the window, Widow can almost pretend she’s been allowed to leave the city. She eyes a wine bottle she left on the golden, wheeled bar cart, but her anticipation outweighs her weariness. She heads to a dark room. This one is covered in spare parts and wires. It’s dimly illuminated by computer monitors that barely shine a bleak gray. There’s a chair in the middle of it with hookups for her implants. This room reminds her where she is, and in this room, she doesn’t mind that at all. She sits in the chair and attaches the cables. 

When she unmutes her implants, they’re quiet. The core has completely recomposed into its inert form on her ride back. She starts to upload it. 

Widow has to remain seated in the chair during the upload process. But she can see the monitors brightening and starting to blur with code as the drips out. It’s like a plant coming back to life, with water and sun. Widow used to call the cores fuel because of this, but she was corrected. Cores give omnics energy, but fuel comes from the outside world and is depleted. Cores feel liquid in her head like gasoline, warm like they’re solar, but an Omnic begins and ends its life with them. A cyborg only moves under its ministrations, not the other way around. Cores are self-sustaining. They’re not really like fuel. Mondatta’s movement calls them souls. 

Whoever or whatever designed the cores, they didn’t design them to be consumed. But Mondatta’s core is gone now. And with its passing the monitors pulse a blue-green, then go black. Then Sombra reaches out of all of the monitors at once. Ten monitors scattered around the room and ten arms distorting the glass in a wave of eldritch code, breaking into the room Widow’s in. The Sombras dig their nails into the panels and pull themselves free, sliding a leg out to sit side-saddle on the frame, shaking out their black coat and sending columns of code down it. When the Sombras depart from the monitor in earnest they flicker. Then nine disappear and one remains, standing before Widow. Her eyes are orange and her smile is soft. 

“Thanks,” Sombra says. She looks like she might say more, but Widow’s already jumped up and is kissing her. Widow puts her hand on Sombra’s waist and at first it goes through, like Sombra’s a hologram. But then it glitches back into place. Sombra’s always so warm, and when she kisses Widow back there’s a bit of a more literal electric feeling. But it’s Sombra in her arms. Widow finally feels home. 

“Missed you,” Widow mumbles into Sombra’s collar. Sombra laughs a little. 

“I was in here– what, a couple days ago? You worked fast, this time.”

“I found an easy target.”

“Of course you did.” Sombra ambles out of the room, stretching her newly refound legs and arms as she does. “You know, you don’t have to keep going through all this trouble for me. I have a stockpile of juice, and I’m always finding ways of getting more.”

“I know,” Widow says. “I read about the blackout in Northside last night.” Sombra grins as she sits down on the velvet sofa and shrugs off her coat. “Anyone in particular this time?”

“A college around there was trying to hack into my code,” Sombra says. “Not even close to successful,” she adds quickly, when Widow looks alarmed. “But still. I don’t like having my shit messed with.”

“If they got in, Sombra–“

“They won’t.” For the first time, Sombra’s smile is gone. “I survived because I’m the best at this. I’ve faced much worse than those little shits. They can’t touch me.”

Widow nods. Sits down next to her. Sombra’s never told Widow who killed her. Widow doesn’t even think she’s ever asked, she just intuited it’s not something Sombra would want to talk to her about. Widow’s kept her ear out, but the ghost that haunts the city’s systems has done a very good job of keeping people confused and afraid. Widow doesn’t know who killed Sombra, she just knows that now that Sombra is in her life, no one can touch her. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Widow says quietly. “Or that I don’t believe in you. I just worry.”

Sombra sighs. “I know.”

“I can’t see what goes on in so much of your life.”

“You kind of can,” Sombra says. “When you plug in, you’re in my world. We can talk there.” Sombra runs her hand along Widow’s cheek. Her smile is back. “We can do some things there, together.”

It’s a naked attempt to change the subject. Widow makes one more, feeble effort. “I don’t mind hunting,” she says. “I just want to have you around.”

“I can’t be around if you’re in jail, away from the jack.”

“They can’t touch me,” Widow says. And Sombra practically snarls in response, kissing Widow’s neck and pressing down on her with her artificial body weight. Widow lets herself fall. 

When Widow slides Sombra’s leggings and panties down, the coding that makes up her body responds to her touch. Sombra can’t affect Widow’s clothes, though. Sombra sits back and watches Widow undress, her eyes lingering in ways she must know make Widow almost too impatient to tease. 

When Sombra finally touches her, spreading Widow’s legs open, it feels like the current that gives Sombra form is pouring into Widow. When Sombra settles between her thighs, her tongue and her mouth are not wet, but they’re warm and shake Widow to her core. She licks against Widow’s clit, teasing until Widow’s vibrating and begging. Sombra grips Widow’s hips as she finally gives Widow the attention she wants so desperately, and Widow buries her fingernails in Sombra’s shoulders as she cums. 

Widow swears they’re both sparking as Sombra snakes up her body to kiss her. Sombra’s eyes are glowing bright yellow-orange and when Widow blinks, she sees their photo negatives on her eyelids. 

“Missed you,” Widow breathes. “Missed this.”

“Good,” Sombra says.

-

Sombra doesn’t sleep, but she lies in bed with Widow afterwards anyway. When Widow wakes up though, Sombra’s gone. She’s waiting for Widow in the kitchen.

“I can mix the eggs and watch the stove,” Sombra says. “And I checked your fridge. You have everything you need for a quiche florentine.” Widow rolls her eyes. 

“What if I didn’t want it? It’s not like you’re going to be eating anyway.”

“I like cooking with you,” Sombra says. And she’s right. Widow always wants that. 

The quiche turns out well under Sombra’s management. They’ve done this enough that Widow sort of knows the recipe by now. As Widow’s eating and Sombra’s flipping through channels on the holographic TV screen, Widow’s phone blips.

>Doomfist: You got the job done far ahead of schedule. I’d ask if you compromised your security to do so, but I trust you wouldn’t be that reckless. 

“You didn’t, right?” Sombra asks, not looking away from the screen. Widow rolls her eyes. 

“No. And Doomfist wouldn’t be happy if he knew you read his texts. ”

“I didn’t read it. Incoming, unsecured data like that is like someone yelling in my ear. He’s actually friends with Reaper. He should know.”

“I don’t think Reaper goes out much,” Widow says. Sombra grimaces and nods. Widow’s phone blips again. 

>Doomfist: I’m assuming you did so to get Sombra out ahead of schedule. I saw what she did Northside. Now that she’s out, tell her I need her exploiting the vulnerabilities she created there. 

>Doomfist: If she’s going to be using us as a core supplier, she needs to keep working for us too. 

Widow bites the inside of her cheek. She’s had this argument with Doomfist a thousand times before. Told him a thousand times Sombra isn’t using her. That she doesn’t need to be saved. 

_I trust you,_ Doomfist says, everytime. His tone is calm but Widow can always see the ache in his jaw, and that always keeps her from actually getting angry at him. _I just don’t trust her._

Widow sets down her phone. Sombra working means Sombra traveling through fiber optic cables and stealing from banks and labs while their owners are helpless. Sombra working means Sombra far from home. 

“I could tell him to go fuck himself,” Sombra says.

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“I know.” Sombra doesn’t need to sleep, but she suddenly looks exhausted. “I knew I’d have to work, anyway.”

Widow picks up her phone. She types out, _She’ll start tomorrow_. Sombra smiles at Widow after she sends it. Leans over and kisses her, leaving the TV on some terrible scifi show from last century. 

Widow’s phone buzzes as Widow pulls Sombra into her lap. “He says fine, by the way,” Sombra says, breaking their kiss. 

“I don’t care,” Widow mumbles. And Sombra laughs and shoves down her robe, exposing Widow’s bare chest. Her breasts are still covered in marks from last night, and Sombra kisses over them and up her neck, buzzing little brands. Widow grips Sombra’s ass and waist and holds her close, like she’ll never have to let Sombra go. 

-

The next morning, Sombra doesn’t try to make Widow make breakfast. She stays in bed with her until the sun threatens to rise and they both know Sombra has to go. Sombra stands, her cloak and leggings appearing from thin air and draping over her. Widow grabs her wrist and Sombra turns back to her, cupping her face. 

“I’ll be quick,” Sombra says. “And the core you got me this time had a lot of juice. I’ll be back before I go back out. I bet I have like a week in here.”

It scares her sometimes, when Sombra calls the real world in and the phantasmal space Widow pulls her from, out. Widow would argue, but really, Widow can’t leave the city and even if she did, she’d only have radioactive wasteland to wander through. Wherever Sombra lives now, she can go wherever she wants. It makes Widow wonder if Sombra doesn’t feel confined in a material form in the real world. Freer and better when her mind and her coding skill are her only limits. It makes Widow wonder if Sombra’s losing herself as a ghost, or if she’s losing Sombra. 

Widow shakes her head. She doesn’t like people who try to save people. They always seem to only save people who are inconvenient to them, who trouble their world. She doesn’t want to save Sombra, she loves Sombra. She kisses Sombra as Sombra flickers and disappears, taking her warm, electric touch with her. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m [@tacticalgrandma](https://twitter.com/tacticalgrandma) on twitter if you want to talk to me there!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and any comments or kudos would mean the world to me 💜


End file.
